Illya had been told he wasn't needed on the operation. He'd thought it odd, and so had Solo, but Waverly said that was what the mission required and had left it at that. It had been six months since the little team from UNCLE had formed, and this was the first time anyone had ever needed just Solo. Even Gaby, who was loyal almost to a fault to Waverly, had started to argue before being shut down by a glare and a not very subtle jab at her past.
Now, the two spurned operatives sat in a shoddy Cairo hotel room about fifteen miles away from where Solo's tracker said he was. The signal from the bug was cutting in and out, so Illya was adjusting the antenna, trying to get better sound.
"I don't like it," Gaby remarked, sipping at a glass of cheap wine. "Why just him? And who is behind this operation that has enough power to back Waverly down? He didn't want to send Solo in alone, you know. Something isn't right."
"I also don't like it," Illya muttered, tinkering a little more. He smiled. "Ah ha! I got it!"
Gaby sat up. "You can hear? Let me listen!"
Illya didn't argue with her as she grabbed the headphones form him and slipped them over her ears. They were too big for her and looked ridiculous, but the look on her face kept the Russian from laughing.
"What is it? What is he saying?" Illya asked impatiently. Gaby shook her head, holding up a finger to silence him. He glared at her.
"It's the British ambassador. That's the man Waverly was so eager to please. "
"Well, what's he saying? What's happening?"
Gaby shrugged. "Nothing. They're just talking. But something isn't right about this."
Illya looked outside at the setting sun and had to stifle a yawn. He hadn't slept in two days, since upon finding out that Solo was headed to Egypt, he and Gaby had caught the next flight over. It was beginning to catch up to him. "We should listen in shifts."
"I'll take the first shift. Go get some sleep and I'll wake you up in a few hours." She stated it plainly, then looked up at Illya with an expression that dared him to argue. He didn't.
"I will see you in an hour," he said, and went into the small bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the bed, and it sank beneath his weight, the springs groaning in complaint. He lay down, crossing his hands over his chest, and stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep, but the needs of his body overtook the flurry of his thoughts, and soon he was in a deep slumber.
XXX
"It's almost sundown," Solo commented, looking out the window of the British ambassador's home. "If this is going to happen tonight, it'll happen within the next few hours."
The ambassador was sitting in an armchair smoking a pipe and reading a book of poetry and slowly drinking a glass of bourbon. "Yes, I should say you're right," he replied.
Solo frowned, turning toward him and cocking his head to the side. "Strange. You don't seem too concerned about the supposed assassination about to take place."
"What do you mean 'supposed?' It is going to happen tonight. The bastard is probably out there as we speak, waiting to strike."
"Well, he'll have to get by your security detail and the best CIA agent in history first. How is it you're so sure that there's someone after you tonight?"
The ambassador, a large mustachioed man named Collins, glared at him. He'd done that a lot over the past eight hours. "I'm no fool, Solo. I've spies everywhere, and they've told me that an attempt is being made on my life this very night."
Solo looked down into his glass of untouched scotch, his brow furrowed. "Yes, so you've told me," he muttered to himself. This man did not have the attitude of someone whose life was about to be sought after. He seemed more bored than anything, and not very appreciative of Solo's presence, though he had specifically requested his presence. His presence. There was something very wrong here. He walked forward, setting his glass on the counter before sitting on the sofa across from where Collins sat. "Why didn't you just go to the safe house with your family?"
"I didn't want to put them at risk! Besides, if he didn't do it tonight, he'd try again another time, and again and again until he'd finished me. You're here to dispatch him and make sure I'm safe from the maniac!" he cried angrily. He was drunk. He looked up and made eye contact with Solo. Solo held his gaze, refusing to be the first to back down.
It was finally Collins who looked away, and as he did so, something flashed in his face, just for a moment. It was something Solo knew well. It was what had been in Illya's face just before Solo had returned his father's watch.
It was the guilt that came with betrayal.
"What have you done?" he growled softly.
"I don't know what you mean," Collins said. But Solo had already seen. He already knew. He crossed the room in two quick strides and pulled the sniveling man to his feet.
"What did you do?!"
XXX
Illya jerked awake, grabbing the hand that touched his shoulder, yanking him from sleep. He looked up, chest heaving, then quickly let go of the offending wrist as he realized that it was just Gaby.
"I am sorry," he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"It's been two hours," she said, rubbing at her wrist with a scowl. "It's your shift."
Illya nodded and went back to the radio receiver. He put the headphones on and listened.
"What did you do?!" Solo was saying loudly. Illya frowned. What was going on?
"I am sorry, Mister Solo." A quieter voice, from someone else in the room, answered Solo's demand. The ambassador.
"Sorry for what?"
"He was going to kill me if I didn't return what I owed him. I don't have the money, so I had to offer him something else that he wanted more than he wants me."
Illya frowned. What the hell was going on?
"Who is he?" Solo sounded angry. And worried.
"An old friend of yours, he says. Apparently you stole more from him than I did."
"You bastard," he heard Solo say, his voice dangerous and cold. Then, there was a scuffle, shouting, the sound of glass breaking. Illya smiled as he heard a crack, followed by a rather feminine scream. The cowboy had broken one of the traitor's bones, then. Good.
"Where is he?" Solo shouted.
Illya couldn't hear the ambassador's response, but judging by the sound of something connecting with flesh, followed by a grunt, it wasn't a satisfactory answer.
Suddenly, there was a pop, and Solo gasped sharply.
"Cowboy?" Illya said aloud, scrambling to his feet and nearly disconnecting his headphones. He picked up the suitcase that held his radio as Gaby came out of the bedroom, looking confused and worried.
There was a small thump from the headphones, and a groan.
"P-peril. I really hope you didn't listen to Waverly cus I could-I could really use your help."
Illya felt his face pale. "We have to go," he said to Gaby. She grabbed the keys to the car they'd borrowed and ran out to the car without question, Illya at her heels, his arms full of the suitcase that would show them where Solo was.
The car squealed as she tore out of the parking lot. "What is happening?" she asked.
"Solo's in trouble. He's been wounded." Illya answered shortly. He could hear Solo's labored breathing. It made him nauseous. "Drive faster." The American agent was obviously hurting. Struggling. Probably dying.
The sick feeling was quickly being replaced by something hot and burning, a familiar anger deep in his gut. His hands began to shake, his jaw tightening. He let the anger flow over him like waves, soaking it in. He usually hated it when he felt like this. It meant he wasn't in control. But now, he didn't want control.
"Peril." Solo's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He wished he could answer, put his mind at ease, tell him that they were coming. He couldn't. He could only listen. "Kuryakin, if you're there...Da-damn it. He's coming."
"Drive faster!" Illya shouted.
"Look, that must be it just there!" Gaby said, pointing to a building a little ways up the street with a British flag flapping lazily in the light breeze.
The car hadn't even come to a full stop before Illya was scrambling out of it, untangling himself from the headphones and pulling out his gun as he ran.
"Cowboy!" he shouted as he got inside. "Solo!" The bottom floor was nothing more than a giant foyer. He headed for the stairs in the corner, taking them two, three at a time. The door at the top was locked. He slammed his shoulder into it and it burst open, and he stumbled into the kitchen of the moderately palatial home. He ran through it, through the dining room, and finally, into a parlor where, on the floor, lie his partner and two other men.
"Solo!"
The American agent was lying on the ground, his torso and face covered in blood. There was more on the floor. More blood than a man could survive without, Illya thought worriedly. Gaby had arrived now, and immediately ran to the phone to call Waverly. Illya knelt down and put his quivering fingers to the man's neck. He almost sank to the floor in relief as he felt a pulse. Solo let out a small moan, his eyes moving beneath the lids. His lips parted. There was blood in his mouth.
"Your…your hands are freezing," he whispered. He smiled with his read teeth and his red lips and his pale face.
Illya let out a nervous chuckle. "Sorry, Cowboy." He did a quick examination of Solo's head, puzzled when he didn't see any obvious injury there, then turned his attention to his torso. His blood-slicked fingers slipped as he tried to unbutton the agent's shirt, so he gave up and ripped the fabric instead.
"Moving a l-a little fast there Peril," Solo muttered.
"Yes, well, I am nothing if not efficient," Illya answered, trying to sound annoyed, though he was secretly relieved at his friend's joking. That meant he was awake and at least mostly alert. He let slip a Russian curse as he spotted the bullet hole a few inches beneath Solo's left clavicle. It was still spouting blood, and he was about to tear off a piece of Solo's shirt to try and staunch the flow when Gaby appeared, shoving a hand towel under his nose.
"Thank you," he said gratefully, taking it from her and pressing it to the wound.
Solo let out a cry of pain, his blue eyes opening for the first time since Illya had gotten there. "That hurts," he hissed.
"I know. I'm sorry," Illya said as Gaby checked to see if the other two men were alive. Illya hadn't even thought about them since he came in. The towel was beginning to soak through with red, and Solo's eyelids were starting to droop.
"Hey, Cowboy. Cowboy!"
Solo blinked blearily. "Hm?"
"You have to stay awake, bratishka. Stay awake."
"Da, chuvak," he answered tiredly, trying to smile. It just looked like a grimace. He was beginning to tremble beneath Illya's hands as shock set in. "Illya…" he began, and then his eyes rolled back in his head.
"Chyort," Illya muttered. "Gaby, did you call Waverly?"
"Yes." The way she said it sounded like she wasn't sure of the answer.
"What is it?" Illya asked sharply.
"They can't get anyone to our location until tomorrow, so we're going to need to get him to the nearest hospital ourselves," Gaby said.
"Chyort voz'mi!" he cried. The anger was building again. "What about the other two?"
"Well, this one is definitely dead. There's a piece of broken glass sticking out of his carotid. I'm guessing he's the one who shot Solo, and this happened when he came to finish the job. The other one is the ambassador, I think. He's unconscious, with a bump on his head, but I think he'll be fine." She poked at him with her foot, and he groaned and mumbled something about needing a drink. "Yeah, he's fine."
Illya felt a little swell of pride at the thought of Solo dispatching of his would-be assassin-and it explained the blood all over his face and head. He had lost a lot of blood, that was certain, but not as much as Illya had first feared.
"Go start the car, Gaby."
Gaby looked at him. "Do you need help bringing him?"
Illya raised an eyebrow at her and she rolled her eyes. "No of course not." Halfway out the door she called, "Just don't drop him, Kuryakin!" And then she was gone.
"Alright, Cowboy," Illya said softly, slipping one arm under the unconscious man's knees and the other under his shoulders. He lifted the American agent easily, trying his best not to jar him too badly. The movement did nothing to wake him, which worried the Russian. He carried Solo through the house, cursing small doorways and, when he arrived at them and realized he couldn't see his feet, stairs. He walked down them as quickly as he dared. Gaby was waiting in the car, the engine running and the back door open, ready to take in the injured agent.
Illya laid him gently on the seat before sliding into the backseat as well, settling Solo's head in his lap before reaching over to close the car door.
"How is he?" Gaby asked.
"Not good, I think," Illya answered. "The bleeding still has not stopped." He put two fingers to Solo's neck, a little saddened when there was no comment about his cold hands. "And his pulse grows weaker. We have to get him to hospital."
Gaby nodded curtly. "I saw one on the drive from the airport. It's about twenty minutes away, I think."
At that moment, Solo coughed wetly, and Illya knew the blood that come from his mouth was his, not that of his shooter. "Can you get us there in ten?"
She responded by shifting gears and urging the little car faster.
Illya kept one hand looped around Solo's midriff, trying to keep him somewhat steady, and kept pressure on the wound with the other. Solo's head lolled limply against the Russian's chest as they took corners too fast. The cloth Illya was using to staunch the blood flow had long since soaked through, and now as he tried to keep his friend from bleeding to death, blood leaked onto his fingers and between them. Solo's shaking was getting worse, and his skin beneath the blood was shiny with sweat as the shock took hold. Carefully, one arm at a time and with lots of Russian expletives, Illya removed his jacket and draped it over Napoleon's shivering form.
"We are almost there," Gaby said, glancing into the rear-view mirror. She looked like she wanted to ask, but she didn't, so Illya told her.
"He is still alive," he said softly.
They reached the hospital in seven minutes. By that time, Napoleon's pulse was too weak and his breathing too fast and his skin too pale and his lips a peculiar shade of bluish grey.
Gaby opened the car door and helped Illya out, and then helped him with Solo. She held the door open as Illya burst into the hospital, much to the surprise of the people in the waiting room.
"This man needs immediate medical care," he announced loudly. If his large form hadn't already intimidated the staff, the tone of his voice certainly would.
There was a medical team there in seconds, putting Solo onto a gurney and wheeling him away. Gaby and Illya began to follow, but a male orderly stepped in front of them before they could.
"You can't," he said sympathetically. "Only staff back here."
"My friend, he needs blood, yes?" Illya asked.
The orderly hesitated. "Well, yes, most likely, but-"
"I will give it to him. Let me through."
"Wait, sir-" he began, but he didn't argue as Illya pushed past him.
The doctors looked up in shock as Illya stepped into the room.
"You can't be here sir," a doctor said, her voice pleasant but firm.
"I'm here to give him blood."
She frowned. "You can't just-"
"He is AB. I saw on his military record. He needs it soon if he is to survive, yes?"
The doctor looked at him a moment, then nodded and turned to another nurse. "Get him prepped. We need it as soon as possible."
The nurse approached Illya with some trepidation. "If you'll come with me, sir."
She took him to the hospital bed next to Solo's and had him sit down, then swabbed the inside of his arm with iodine. He watched the staff as they bustled around Solo. He didn't even feel the needle that went into his arm. He wouldn't have cared if he had. He was still watching Solo as he lay down on the bed. Soon, they prep was done, and in a moment, he saw his blood going into his friend's pale form.
"It will be okay, bratishka," he said softly.
XXX
Gaby sat in the waiting room drinking bitter coffee and trying to think about how much the chair was making her behind hurt because that was far less worrying than the other things there were to think about. Illya was next to her wrapped in a hideous yellow blanket and nibbling on an apple that the doctor had insisted he eat to help replenish his strength after the transfusion. He looked tired, and worried and, Gaby noted with concern, angry.
"How are you feeling Illya?" she asked.
"I am fine," he snapped. His fingers were tapping against his leg. Gaby had come to recognize the signs over the past six months. The finger tapping meant a storm was brewing.
"I think you should try and sleep."
"I will not sleep until he is awake."
Gaby tamped down the urge to scold him for acting like a petulant child. Instead, she tried to reason with him. "The doctor said surgery could take hours, and recovery is hours longer. It could be days before he wakes up."
"I don't care!" Illya snapped, standing. The apple fell to the floor with a thump. He stood, breathing hard, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched. "I need the key."
"What key?" Gaby asked, worried she knew the answer.
"The car key!"
She stood too, her temper flaring. "Do not yell at me, Illya Kuryakin. You are tired and worried and extremely angry, and so am I, but that does not mean we can go about exacting vengeance on a British ambassador!"
"It will not be we! Now give me the key, or I will take it from you!"
Gaby glared at him, her chest heaving, and grudgingly reached into her pocket. "Fine. But don't expect Waverly to help you out of the trouble you're about to get yourself in." She drew out the key, and Illya snatched it from her grip.
"I am not the one who will be needing help," he growled, and stalked out of the hospital.
"Damn you," Gaby muttered after him, sinking back into her chair and slouching in a rather unladylike manner. "Damn you."
XXX
The satisfaction he felt that there were no policemen at the scene was of the savage, violent kind. His shaking hands would soon be satisfied.
The damned coward was sitting in an armchair, his feet resting on the back of the dead man. There was a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. He looked up in shock as Illya stormed into the room, scrambling to his feet. He didn't get a word out before Illya had him against the wall, his feet dangling above the ground, a hand wrapped around his windpipe, ready to kill.
"You are a coward and a son of a bitch," Illya growled. "I will be doing this world a favor by removing you from it."
"You-you can't" the ambassador rasped. "A Russian spy killing a British ambassador on Egyptian soil? You'll start World War Three, boy. You'll be killed."
"I. Don't. Care." Illya's voice was low, dangerous, primal. He could end this man in a second without even trying.
"You can't do thi-"
Illya squeezed harder, cutting off the ambassador's words. He wanted to do it. His hands wanted it. His mind wanted it. But one cannot always have what one wants. Slowly, slowly, he released his hold on the wretched man, who collapsed to the floor, coughing.
"I am letting you live, you little shit. It is not for your sake, or your family's sake, or even my own sake. I could kill you and have a clear conscience."
"Then what?" the man asked. What audacity. Asking questions of the man who spared his sad life.
"I don't know," Illya answered, and kicked the bastard in the ribs and left.
In the car on the way back to the hospital, though, he realized. He did know. Gaby was right that Waverly would not be able to protect him if he murdered the ambassador. In fact, he'd likely have to cut all ties. Illya hated the ambassador, but even more than he hated that wretch, he cared for Gaby and Napoleon. He would lose them if he exacted his vengeance.
Damn. Working under Waverly was beginning to get to him.
XXX
"He's out of surgery and stable. Waverly's going to have him transferred to a hospital in London tomorrow to finish his recovery," Gaby said as Illya walked in. He had a strange look on his face. "What happened?"
"I could not kill him."
Gaby fought back a smile. "Oh?"
"It would have started a world war," he stated, as though that were the reason. Gaby knew otherwise. She let it be. Let the big oaf have his pride.
"Well, I am glad you saw sense. Now come sit next to me so I have somewhere to lay my head that is more comfortable than the cement wall or the plastic chairs."
Illya sat next to her and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Here," he said quietly, moving his arm and putting it around her shoulders so she could lean against his chest. She shifted until she got comfortable, then closed her eyes.
"You should sleep too," she murmured. She evened out her breathing, feigning sleep. A few minutes later, she felt the slightest pressure as Illya leaned his head against hers. Soon he was snoring. She smiled and allowed herself to fall asleep.
XXX
"I am never going to work another solo mission again for as long as I live," Solo said. Illya was sitting in a chair beside him, reading a newspaper and not paying him nearly enough attention. "You know, the nurse told me that I can't do any rigorous activities for at least six weeks. Six. Weeks."
"Mm hm," Illya hummed, turning the page of the newspaper with a loud rustling sound. Solo scowled, then tried again.
"They found the bullet a hair's length from my lung, you know. It could have killed me."
"That's what I heard," Illya answered, still not looking up from the damned paper.
Solo glared looking at the tiny desk by his table, searching for something to use as ammo. He spotted a pencil and picked it up, then leveled it at Illya's head and launched. It hit its target right on.
Illya put down the newspaper and returned the glare. "You have my blood running through your veins now, Cowboy. More of my blood than yours, actually. You're practically Russian now."
Solo laughed, then grimaced as it jostled his wound. "Ow. Now, that is just not true. You could replace every drop of my blood with yours, Red Peril, and I would still not be a Russian."
Gaby came into the ward room, saw them bickering, and made her exit, muttering something about testosterone and egos.
XXX
The ambassador was having lunch when the visitor came. He was at least as old as Collins, with graying hair and glasses and wrinkles around his eyes.
"Do you know who I am?" the man asked.
"Should I? How the devil did you get past my detail?"
"The same way the sniper did. They were told to by a higher authority."
Collins narrowed his eyes, his bite of risotto stopping halfway to his mouth. "Come again?"
"The sniper. The assassin to whom you sold out my man."
The wheels were turning now. Collins put his fork down. "Your-your man? Waverly?"
The man, Waverly, nodded. "Yes. Now, here is the deal I am willing to make. You step down from your position and return to the United Kingdom where you will refrain from working in politics for the rest of your days."
"And if I don't take your deal?"
"I believe you already met Agent Kuryakin. He'll be stopping by in three days. If you're not gone by then, he has authority to bring you in. By whatever means necessary."
Collins snorted. "Whose authority?"
"The highest," Waverly answered. His face was firm. He was not joking. Collins felt the blood drain from his face.
"I-I have nothing else. I have a family to feed."
"Then you best find another means of income, lest they should starve."
"Why-why are you doing this?"
Waverly leaned forward across the table. "You buggered with my team, Collins. You can't do that and just get away with it." Waverly smiled an unpleasant, predatory smile that made Collins shiver.
"Who are you people?" Collins whispered.
Waverly stood, pushing his chair in. "The kind that you don't cross, Collins. Spread the word. And enjoy the rest of your lunch."
XXX